


By Its Cover

by StarshipDancer



Category: A Very Potter Musical Series - Team StarKid
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Bellatrix ships it, M/M, Pining Voldemort, Quirrellmort - Freeform, Quirrelmort, Voldemort has a reputation and doesn't know why
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-29 13:53:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11442249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarshipDancer/pseuds/StarshipDancer
Summary: A Quirrellmort Muggle Bookstore AU. Because why not?Or, in which Voldemort pines after one of his customers and realizes having a scary reputation isn't all it's cut out to be.Based on characters from Team Starkid's A Very Potter Musical





	1. Chapter 1

Voldemort tapped the end of his pencil against the counter, his mind wandering with boredom. He glanced at the clock just to see how much time had passed and, yeah, it had only been ten minutes. Weird. He would’ve _sworn_ four hours had passed since he last checked.

The tapping was the only noise in the bookstore, a sharp, rapping noise increasing in intensity as Voldemort’s mood worsened. He hated working weekends. Weekends were the days you would think were the busy ones, but were they? No. Absolutely not. Everybody was out spending their money in other, cooler stores. Probably _used_ bookstores, where they could find everything Voldemort had for half the price or better. Not that he could really blame them.

Weekdays were better. Voldemort _loved_ working weekdays. Everybody was always in such a rush looking for whatever book they needed. Where used bookstores were messy and disorganized (probably to give off the fantasy of finding hidden treasures in unexpected places), _Flourish and Blotts_  was tidy and easy to navigate when you’re looking for that particular book. Voldemort barely had time to breathe some days, which was how he liked it. He liked keeping busy.

And weekdays stayed pretty busy thanks to the traffic from Hogwarts University. Classmates who knew and feared him would run into the store, grab what they needed, and then spend five minutes trying to decide if they _really_ wanted to let the self-proclaimed Dark Lord check them out.

Voldemort smirked, thinking of some of the freshman whispering about him the other day. He’d never done anything to warrant being called the Dark Lord, but he thought it was important to have a sound reputation. So what if it meant everybody was afraid of him? At least he didn’t have to worry about people trying to make small talk with him.

They left him alone. And that was just how he liked it.

The bell at the door chimed as a customer walked in, breaking Voldemort out of his reverie. He sat up and made a show of tidying things up around the counter. The manager usually didn’t show up on Saturdays, but if he did, Voldemort didn’t want to get caught drooling on the shiny counter top.

He adjusted the box of Bisexual Pride pins next to the book quote ones before discretely glancing to see who had entered. All he saw was a head of mousy brown hair disappearing into an isle of books. He breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed again.

“Your crush is here, Lord Voldemort!” whispered Bellatrix from beside him. She grabbed his arm excitedly and jumped up and down, nearly ripping his shoulder out of place. At least if that happened, he’d get to leave early.

“Where did you even come from!?” Voldemort asked his coworker, a hand over his heart to feel the scare she’d given him. Bellatrix was one of his best friends, but she had the really annoying habit of popping up undetected and trying to give him a heart attack. One of these days, he’d figure out how her stealth mode worked.

Bellatrix waved him off and pursed her lips, wearing that scolding look of hers she gave out when Voldemort wasn’t paying attention to her. He got that look often. “Have you devised a plan to speak to the peasant yet?” She also liked to give weird code names to people so nobody listening knew who they were talking about, which Voldemort had hoped she would grow out of after high school but whatever.

None of her code names were entirely flattering, either. Most of them made her sound like a superior snob, which wasn’t entirely the truth but Voldemort wasn’t about to dispute it. Bellatrix had been the one who started the whole Dark Lord business, and he _still_ hadn’t gotten away from it.

“No, I’ve not _devised a plan_ yet,” Voldemort muttered, finally pulling his arm out of her grasp. “Aren’t you supposed to be stocking books?”

“We have more important things to be worrying about than stocking paperweights,” Bellatrix declared spiritedly. She hated books. Voldemort couldn’t figure out why she was working in a _bookstore_. Then again, __he__ also hated books, but he did like money.

“You are the most feared in all of Hogwarts,” Bellatrix continued, her voice low and ringing with pride. “Only Albus Dumbledore doesn’t quake in his boots at the mere mention of your name!”

“Well, yeah, he’s the _headmaster_. Why would he be afraid of a student he’s never even met before?” Voldemort asked, eyebrow raised. Voldemort, in the eyes of the teachers, was the prime example of a model student. He stayed out of trouble and made top marks in all of his classes, so of course he’d never visited the headmaster before. Bellatrix, on the other hand….

Bellatrix smacked his arm. “Don’t raise one eyebrow at me! I can’t do that, so you shouldn’t be allowed, either!”

“Yeah, well, I am the Dark Lord,” said Voldemort with a grin.

“Don’t think that gives you special privileges!”

His brow furrowed. “Then what _does_ it give me?”

“Street cred.” Bellatrix grinned evilly. Voldemort really hoped he never ran into her in a dark alley.

He leaned on the counter again, reaching over absently to poke around a fallen button. He flipped it over and scrunched up his nose at the book quote written in small, fancy lettering. Jane Austen. Gross.

“Is there a point to your speech, or can I go back to daydreaming about snakes now?”

Bella huffed, obviously displeased with the way this conversation had gone. “My point is, with your gruesome and beautiful reputation, talking to the peasant isn’t going to be easy. We have to handle this situation delicately.”

“Or I could just do what I always do.” When Bella gave him a confused look, he shrugged and added, “Ring up his stuff, put it in a bag, send him on his way, and then go back to wondering which direction my life is going in if I can’t even talk to _one_ little--uh, peasant.”

Bellatrix did not look happy. “This is going to be harder than I anticipated.”

Voldemort didn’t really get why she was so determined to get him together with this adorable guy he kinda-sorta-maybe-definitely had a crush on. When Voldemort refused to go out with her, she’d adopted this “If-I-Can’t-Have-You-Then-He-Can” sort of attitude and went out of her way to try and hook them up.

Voldemort missed the good ol’ days when things were quiet and he could pine after the boy in peace.

“U-um….” The small noise caught Voldemort’s attention, and he looked up into the warmest, most terrified set of brown eyes he’d ever seen. Quirinus Quirrell averted his gaze immediately, too intimidated to make eye contact for very long. Voldemort didn’t take that personally; he was pretty sure Quirrell would’ve been intimidated by a bumblebee.

With a secretive smile that was a little bit too on the obvious side, Bellatrix excused herself to go back to stocking. Which was a lie, of course. She’d probably be watching from behind a shelf somewhere, just waiting for Voldemort to embarrass himself.

If anything, her absence only made Quirrell even more nervous. He turned his head to watch her go, mortified to be left standing there alone with Voldemort. He fidgeted, fingers fiddling with a piece of crinkled paper. Voldemort could see some dirt under his nails. _Damn_ , he was cute.

It wasn’t just the dirt that made him so damn adorable, either. It was the small flicker of his eyes as he glanced up to see if Voldemort was watching him, the way he bit the corner of his bottom lip, the way he always tried to duck through the store so as to not be detected, but Voldemort always saw him. Even if he didn’t __see him__ , he would smile the faint aroma of flowers that always seemed to follow Quirrell about, and his wildly beating heart would confirm what he already knew.

Voldemort’s life had been so much simpler before he knew he also liked guys.

When it didn’t seem like Quirrell was going to find his voice anytime soon, Voldemort decided to save him the trouble. “Need help finding something?”

Quirrell nodded nervously and handed out the piece of paper. “I n-need that for c-class.”

 _ _Unfogging the Future.__ Cassandra Vablatsky. Voldemort needed one too, for Trelawney’s class on Monday. They had one, emphasis on the __one__ , and Voldemort had planned to buy it during break.

He glanced to his left, where he saw black spine of said copy on the reserved shelf. He didn’t __really__ need it; after all, it was Divination __Theory__. What would he need a book for?

Maybe if he didn’t have a copy, he’d have to share with somebody else. Maybe Quirrell. Probably Bellatrix. The latter didn’t seem too appealing, in all honesty. Bella always had cryptic, gruesome notes scribbled in the margins of all her books. Voldemort wasn’t even what half of them even __meant;__  he only knew he __didn’t__ want to know.

Without hesitating, Voldemort grabbed his copy and held it out for Quirrell. “Must be your lucky day. We have one left. This one was on reserve, but the guy hasn’t picked it up yet.”

Quirrell blinked at him in shock. “You… y-you won’t g-get in t-trouble?”

“Nah, man, don’t worry about it.” Voldemort wiggled the book a little, going for encouraging, but Quirrell just stared at him like he had no nose. “Come on, I mean it, it’s fine! You need the book, don’t you?”

With a slight nod, Quirrell accepted the book, murmured a quiet thanks, and slipped away back into the fiction section. Voldemort relaxed on the counter again and glanced around for Bellatrix. Now seemed like the kind of time she would pop up out of thin air and try to scare him to death again. When she didn’t show up, Voldemort returned to sliding around the Jane Austen pin.

Just what about him was so frightening? Aside from the reputation Bellatrix had built for him, he never really did much to warrant people being so afraid of him. Usually, it didn’t bother him. Quirrell, on the other hand….

Voldemort grimaced a little. He pictured Quirrell, biting his lip like he always did, and wondered what it would be like to bite that lip himself, not too hard but enough to make Quirrell squirm just a little bit. What would kissing Quirrell be like, he mused, his throat tight. Would the little squirrel open up to his kisses, or would he have some bite in him, too? Voldemort didn’t care. He just wanted to __know__ , just wanted to try it once. Once would be enough.

He groaned a little and pressed his forehead to the top of the counter again. He breathed out and watched the air fog across the glistening counter top. Once wouldn’t be enough. If he kissed Quirrell, he’d want to kiss him again, and again. He didn’t know what would be enough. Maybe there was no limit, maybe he would just want more and more until all of Quirrell was his and vice versa.

This was all hypothetical, of course. In a world where Quirrell wanted Voldemort just as much and wasn’t completely petrified of him. He didn’t even know if Quirrell liked guys or if he was Quirrell’s type or if he’d just be stuck pining away after somebody who would never be into him. He was used to that.

Or __worse__. What if Quirrell thought __he__ was straight? A hetero Voldemort was hilarious, but Quirrell might not know that! A spike of panic coursed through Voldemort’s veins. He had to fix that. Quirrell had to know that he wasn’t straight, but how? How could he be subtle and informative at the same time?

He could just stick the Bisexual Pride pins all over his shirt. Wear a flag as a cape. Or maybe a simple wristband would do. Yeah. As soon as he got home, he was ordering a wristband online and would wear it for the rest of his life, just so Quirrell would know he was bi.

Voldemort sighed again. He probably wouldn’t do that, either. All of this hinged on weather Quirrell liked him enough to care about his sexuality, which seemed like wishful thinking to Voldemort. So yeah. Proceeding as usual. Working in a bookstore was __hard__.

Somebody cleared their throat, and Voldemort sat up, expecting to see the manager standing there but instead found Quirrell again. He had several other books now, a couple on plants and one Jane Austen novel. That just figured. Voldemort supposed a person couldn’t be __too__ perfect. Or the two of them were just too damn different.

Quirrell eyes lifted upward, and he suppressed a small chuckle. Voldemort tilted his head, confused until Quirrell pointed to his forehead. “Y-you have, um….”

Voldemort raised his hand and felt an indentation across his forehead, probably from the counter. Could his life get any worse? He rubbed at the skin a bit, hoping to get rid of the line, but knowing his pale and pasty complexion, he only made it worse.

“Totally awesome. Thanks for letting me know. I’m gonna go crawl in a hole now,” Voldemort muttered, only half joking.

Quirrell laughed for real now, and wasn’t that just the cutest thing in the world? Man, Voldemort was in deep if he though the guy’s laugh was this adorable. Yeah, he was definitely going to spend the rest of his life in a hole.

“S-sorry,” Quirrell murmured, covering his mouth, but his shoulders still shook with silent snickers.

“Nah, please, laugh at my expense.” Voldemort chuckled some himself, mostly nerves but who needed to know that? “Did you need help with anything else?”

Quirrell, lips pursed to hide his smile, shook his head and set his books onto the counter. He glanced up again, eyes focusing on Voldemort’s forehead, and tried his best not to laugh more. Voldemort wished he would. He bet if he could get him to talk….

“Why is this so funny?” he asked, indicating to the offending line in question.

Quirrell didn’t answer him; he just laughed again, shaking his head, and tried to cover it up with his hand again. Yeah, Voldemort was a goner. He began to scan Quirrell’s books, watching Quirrell finally get himself under control.

“Sorry,” he said, smiling. He had a nice smile. Voldemort wanted to look at it for the rest of his life. Or at least the next hour. “Sorry. It-it’s just… not s-something I’d expect of the D-Dark Lord.”

“What? Are you saying this destroys my reputation? Damn.” Voldemort solemnly shook his head and hummed thoughtfully. “I’m ruined now.”

“N-no, no, I think you can make a c-comeback,” Quirrell promised.

“Yeah? Think so?” Voldemort leaned his elbow on the counter, boldly closing some of the distance between them. Quirrell blushed a little and looked away, biting his lip again. Voldemort might have been imagining it, but he thought he could see the makings of a smile curling the corners of Quirrell’s mouth. He nodded a little, those sweet brown eyes of his flickering up to meet Voldemort’s red ones.

Man, it was a good thing there was a counter between them. Voldemort would have probably done something incredibly stupid.

Quirrell handed him a debit card, and Voldemort slid it through the machine. “Y-you know… you’re not that scary.”

“No?”

Quirrell hummed the affirmative, still regarding him curiously.

 _ _And you’re too damn adorable__. But Voldemort didn’t say that. He wanted to say that, but he managed to hold it in.

He bagged Quirrell’s books, tossing in the Jane Austen pin he’d been toying with, and held it out to him. Quirrell actually met his gaze this time, curious and a little less like a deer in the headlights. Voldemort swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry and his throat tight, and he was pretty sure he was dying. That was the only explanation. He’d died and gone to a heaven where Quirrell was __smiling at him__.

“I-I’ll see you in class on Monday,” he said, nodding in farewell before scurrying out of the bookstore. The door chimed again, and then the shop fell silent. All Voldemort could hear was his heart in his temple, beating at a rate Voldemort wasn’t sure was healthy.

Quirrell had actually __spoke__ to him. Looked at him. __Smiled__. And Voldemort was pretty sure he hadn’t been imagining things. Maybe he actually had a chance? Maybe he wouldn’t be stuck in this loop of unrequited pining for the rest of his college career? __Maybe he actually had a chance__?

No, no, Voldemort, don’t get too ahead of yourself. It was just a __smile__. The cutest damn smile he’d ever seen, but still. He needed to stay calm. Cool. Collected. He was the __Dark Lord__ , the terror of Hogwarts for one reason or another. He didn’t get scared. He did the scaring, and he was __not__ about to let himself get wound up over a __smile__.

Bellatrix popped back up just then. “Didn’t you need that book for class?”

“ _ _Dammit, Bella__!”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort has a typical day in Divination Theory and then tries to come to terms with the fact that Quirrell doesn't like him. Probably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy September 1st! 
> 
> See if you can find the reference to my Soulmate AU fic!

Monday had been weird. Unless Voldemort thought about it too much. Then he decided that no, Monday was perfectly normal, and he wasn’t sure why he’d expected anything else.

He’d shown up in Trelawney’s class without a book, and Bellatrix, being the best friend that she was, brought that small detail to the professor’s attention. Trelawney turned to Voldemort and blinked her oversized, bespectacled eyes at him knowingly. He knew what she was about to say, and he wasn’t even psychic.

“Yes… yes, I foresaw as much,” she swooned dreamily, her hands clasped over her heart. Voldemort shared a disturbed look with Bellatrix. “And now Mr. Malfoy will strike a dramatic pose as he offers to share his book with you….”

“That’s not predicting the future,” Voldemort muttered. “That’s what he always does!”

Lucius stood up, twirled around once, and then threw himself across several of the ridiculous pink cushions Trelawney wanted them to sit on. He draped a hand over his brow, eyes glistening with emotion, and proclaimed, “Do not fear, my lord! I shall defy the fates and refuse to share my textbook with you!”

Trelawney gasped and clapped a hand over her heart. “As I foresaw!” A series of gasps from the believers followed, offset only by the quiet groans of the nonbelievers, Voldemort included.

“But didn’t you just say that Malfoy __would__  offer his book?” Bellatrix tried to raise a single eyebrow, but when that didn’t work out for her, she settled for narrowing her eyes suspiciously. “How can you predict both?”

“I predicted that my influence would change Mr. Malfoy’s way of thinking and he would, indeed, refuse to share his copy of __Unfogging the Future__. Now Mr. Riddle, you must share, instead, with Bellatrix. Today, we shall be reading tea leaves… Will one person from each group please choose a tea set from the cupboard over there, yes… Mr. Malfoy, please allow your partner to retrieve the tea set, that’s a good boy….”

Several moments later, a loud crash signaled that Malloy had decided to once again ‘deny the fates’ and knocked over several tea sets while striking a dramatic pose. But that wouldn’t be enough to convince Voldemort that Trelawney was a __real__  seer. __Anybody__ would have predicted that Malfoy was going to break something. He did the same thing __last week.__

Voldemort didn’t turn his head to see the mess, though. He was trying not to meet Quirrell’s gaze, and he could __definitely__ feel somebody looking at him. Had Quirrell figured out that Voldemort sold him the book he’d been saving for himself? Probably. He hadn’t exactly been discrete about it.

Quirrell probably thought he was a giant idiot. Which wasn’t far from the truth, unless you asked Bellatrix. She swore that Voldemort was omniscient, and the __muggles__ , as she called the common folk, should cower before his divine knowledge and power. Voldemort just agreed with her when she was like that; it usually ended better for him.

Voldemort did what any sane person would do and decidedly went out of his way to avoid running into Quirrell all week. He managed pretty well, too, considering how busy __Flourish and Blotts__  was with students running in to grab their books last minute. He and Bella barely had a moment to ‘make evil plans,’ let alone think about where Quirrell was and what he was doing and if he thought Voldemort was a complete weirdo or not.

Then came the weekend again, and just like every Saturday, Voldemort found himself leaning on the bookstore’s counter, waiting and praying to hear the sound of the bell just to give him something to do. He’d already cleaned the counter top three times, reorganized the buttons, rearranged the buttons by specific type, and even took a power nap. But he’d left marks on the counter, so he had to clean it again.

His life would be so much easier if he liked to read. Then he could just grab a book and nestle in while he didn’t have any customers. It wasn’t for lack of trying, either. He’d grabbed some book earlier that morning and tried to get lost in it. Sure, maybe he shouldn’t have tried to read Jane Austen, but he thought, hey, she was popular enough…

His book of choice definitely hadn’t been influenced by a certain brown-haired, book-reading squirrel. No, definitely not. He wasn’t the type of person to read a book just because he saw his crush with it. That was just low, and he wasn’t that low.

He was probably lower.

Voldemort rubbed at a small indention in the counter and tried to think about how he could get over this. Crushes were just bad for his health. He wasn’t sure how much more his heart could handle. Besides, what was the point in having a crush on Quirrell, of all people? They were so damn different; how in the hell would __that__ ever work out?

In the event that Quirrell liked him back, of course. Which he didn’t. Probably. He’d never given Voldemort any reason to believe otherwise.

He was surprised Bella hadn’t popped up lately. She hopefully hadn’t ditched while Voldemort was snoozing. Not that he would ever tell the manager if she did; he just didn’t like being in the store by himself.

The door chimed for the first time in the past three hours, but Voldemort didn’t get too excited. Last time, it had just been somebody asking for directions to the nearest __Starbucks__. Maybe that was where Bellatrix went. __Starbucks__. Maybe she would bring him back some.

Unfortunately, the person who stopped in front of him was not Bellatrix and probably wasn’t about to ask for directions. It was Quirrell, of course, looking nervous and fidgeting with something small. Voldemort tried to sit up too fast, and his elbow slid along the freshly polished counter top. He just managed to catch himself before whacking his head on the wood. __Smooth__. Time to go find a new hole to crawl into.

“Uh, hi,” he said lamely, his voice several octaves too high for his liking. He cleared his throat. “What can I do for you?”

“U-um… I th-think you gave me this b-by mistake,” Quirrell mumbled and set the Jane Austen button on the counter. Voldemort stared dumbly at it for a moment before Quirrell elaborated, “It w-was in my b-bag from last w-weekend.”

“Oh. Oh! No, that’s for you. Keep it.” Voldemort slid the button back across the counter at Quirrell, who looked adorably confused. Yeah, Voldemort’s heart was sure to give out at any minute. Bellatrix would find him dead behind the counter. Death by Quirrell’s cuteness. He could think of worse ways to go. At least it wasn’t something stupid like __death by two-year-old__  or something like that.

“B-but… won’t you get in t-trouble?”

“For a pin that costs less than a buck? Nah, don’t worry about it. Besides, you like Jane Austen, don’t you? You were buying some of her books before.” Voldemort wanted to __hit__ himself. He just basically admitted to paying attention to what Quirrell was buying.

No, no, he could still salvage this. If Quirrell brought it up, all he had to do was shrug it off like he payed attention to all of his customers. Plus, it had been a slow day. Of course he would remember. Yeah. That sounded convincing.

Quirrell just smiled and accepted the pin back. Voldemort wanted to kiss him. Just lean over, grab him by his collar, and snog him right then and there. But then he’d probably never see Quirrell again, and wouldn’t that be a shame?

“She’s my f-favorite author. I just love all of her w-works.” Voldemort noticed that when Quirrell was comfortable or distracted, he stuttered less. Call him crazy, but he wanted Quirrell to be comfortable enough around him that he never stuttered. He wanted that so much, his heart stung.

“Yeah, I tried reading one of her books this morning. She’s a bit too, uh… intellectual for me,” Voldemort rubbed the back of his neck and grimaced. He hadn’t even made it past page __five__.

Quirrell stifled a laugh. “She doesn’t really s-seem like your st-style, anyways.”

“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?” Voldemort put a hand over his heart, pretending to be offended.

“I th-think you would like Gothic literature b-better,” Quirrell declared with a thoughtful nod. “M-maybe something less romantic and f-flowery.”

Well, less romantic and flowery certainly __sounded__ like him. Voldemort shrugged a little. “Hey, if you find a book you think I’d like, bring it up. I’ll give it a shot. I trust your professional opinion.”

“I-I’ll keep you in mind when I’m b-browsing.” Quirrell was smiling now, and Voldemort thought he was about to die. Quirrell. Keeping __him__ in mind? This couldn’t be real. He had to be dreaming.

Then Quirrell tilted his head and furrowed his brow, scrutinizing Voldemort critically as he asked his next question. “Did you sell me your D-Divination Theory book?”

Voldemort sputtered for a moment, searching for the perfect excuse or explanation. “What? No! No, why would I do--that book was for--yeah. Yeah, I did.”

“Why?”

“Well, uh… you’re probably more interested in the class than I am, and I’ve been thinking about dropping out of it… what’s the point in having a book for a class I might not keep, you know?” That sounded convincing, right? Yeah, Voldemort was convincing. He was devious and cunning and ambitious and __great__ at convincing. In just about every situation that didn’t involve Quirinus Quirrell, of course.

“You d-don’t like the class?”

“I thought it would be an easy elective,” Voldemort admitted, “but I just don’t believe in any of it. Tea leaves and death omens? Not really my cup of tea. Uh. No pun intended.”

“W-well, if it’s any consolation, I hope you don’t see a giant black d-dog that leads to y-your death.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that.” Voldemort laughed quietly, wondering how he could be so charmed by this nervous squirrel. Usually __he__ was the one doing the charming. Natural charisma and all that. Now that he was on the receiving end, he wasn’t sure how he liked it.

With a smile and a quiet nod, Quirrell left the counter to find his way into the fiction section again. Voldemort watched after him, sighing softly as his heart beat up a storm. Man, what he wouldn’t give to follow Quirrell, slide him up against a stack of books, and just--

“Very smooth, my lord! You have him wrapped around your finger!” Bellatrix appeared beside him, coffee in hand, and slurped loudly. Voldemort gasped and then glared, both for sneaking up on him and also for not bringing him any coffee.

“Stop doing that! Besides, I’m pretty sure __I’m__ the one wrapped around __his__ finger,” he muttered with another grumpy sigh. Things were not going as he’d originally hoped, and the last thing he needed was for Bellatrix to remind him.

She held out her coffee, and he accepted the swig, cringing momentarily at the overload of sugar. “Next, we need some traumatic event to send Quirrell right into your arms. We could light the bookstore on fire.”

“Don’t you __dare__ ,” Voldemort muttered. “No traumatic events!”

“What about rollerblading? I could come up behind him and push him directly at you. You catch him, saving his life, and he’ll be so grateful that he’ll offer himself up right then and there!”

“Out of the question,” Voldemort interrupted. “For one, I don’t know how to rollerblade. Two, I don’t just want to get in his pants!”

Bellatrix looked confused. “You don’t? Then what--”

“And __three__ , how exactly are you proposing we get Quirrell to the rollerblading rink in the first place? Doesn’t seem like a usual haunt for him.”

“Well, you ask him, of course!”

Voldemort felt the blood drain from his face. “You want me to ask him out? On a date? Bella, we don’t even know which way this guy swings! If he swings at all!”

“He likes books and flowers. He’s totally gay.”

“And that’s stereotyping! Cut it out! Just because a guy likes flowers doesn’t mean he’s gay.”

“You’ll have to ask him out eventually!” Bellatrix insisted, ignoring him entirely. Voldemort should’ve been used to this by now.

“No, actually, I don’t. I can just sit here and watch him from afar.”

She shook her head mournfully. “This is so sad. I can’t stand to be around you right now.”

“Yeah, you should probably be working, anyways. Did you finish up in the kids section?”

“No, I went out for coffee.” When Voldemort gave her an accusatory glare, she just shrugged and rolled her eyes. “Don’t give me that look, my lord. You were up here taking a nap!”

Voldemort opened his mouth to argue but decided against it. Arguments with Bella never ended well for him, and then she’d never get back to work. The last thing Voldemort wanted was for Bellatrix to still be up here when Quirrell came back. He didn’t think he would ever outlive the humiliation.

“All the more reason to bring me coffee, too,” Voldemort grumbled with a sigh. “Some best friend you are.”

“Tough love, my lord.” With a sympathetic pat on his shoulder, Bellatrix bounced back around the counter and vanished into the kid’s section again. Voldemort watched her suspiciously; he’d never actually __seen__ her do any work, and he’d started wondering what she even did at the store.

Before he could think any more on it, Quirrell had reappeared at the counter, almost as if he’d been waiting for Bellatrix to leave. He had a stack of books in his hand, a few on flowers and __Emma__ by Jane Austen. He also had Mary Shelley’s __Frankenstein__  on top.

Voldemort wished he’d had a moment longer to prepare himself for seeing Quirrell again. He was going to make an idiot out of himself. He knew it. He would open his mouth, and something dumb would come out, and then Quirrell would hate him.

Well. Maybe not hate him. That was probably being melodramatic. Or maybe he was being realistic. People __did__ tend to randomly hate him, thanks to Bellatrix and her ridiculous rumors about world domination (the only thing Voldemort wanted to dominate was the dance floor, but he’d sooner die before he let anybody hear that).

“That was fast!” Way to sound lame, Voldemort. Good job. He __knew__ he was going to make an idiot out of himself.

Quirrell looked away shyly for a moment, a rosy color to his cheeks, and man, if that didn’t do weird things to Voldemort’s stomach. Was that even healthy? He remembered somebody saying something about butterflies, but he was positive that whatever was fluttering around in his abdomen was way too violent to be __butterflies__. Hippogriffs. Probably hippogriffs.

“Y-yeah, I knew wh-what I wanted t-today.” Damn. Voldemort had been so hopeful that maybe Quirrell wouldn’t stutter as much after their first chat. If only he could figure out what it was about Voldemort that made the squirrel so nervous.

“You, uh… you like to read, huh?” Shut the hell __up__ , Voldemort! You sound like a moron!

Making small talk was a skill he had never mastered. He never really saw the point. Bellatrix basically declared herself his best friend, and he met his other friends through her. They were all he needed, most of the time.

Then Quirrell came along. Quirrell was the first person he ever actually __tried__ to talk to, and that was going __so well__  for him. Still, Voldemort couldn’t just give up. Literally. He’d lost complete control over his mouth.

Quirrell hummed the affirmative. “B-books are nice. They d-don’t bother you o-or judge you or say nasty things.” Or make stupid small talk. Quirrell didn’t say that or hint at it, but Voldemort’s anxiety-ridden brain liked to jump to its own conclusions. He should probably figure out how to fix that.

Step one: stop trying to hit on a guy who clearly isn’t interested.

“N-nothing better to do on the weekends, a-anyways.”

Voldemort numbly began to ring up Quirrell’s books. “What, no hot dates?”

Step two: figure out how to keep his damn mouth shut.

Quirrell blushed again and shook his head, averting his eyes once more. “N-no, I’m n-not, uh… wh-what about you? Y-you’re always working on the w-weekends. Doesn’t that upset you’re g-girlfriend?”

“Girlfriend?” Voldemort laughed a little too loudly. When Quirrell’s brow furrowed questionably, Voldemort cleared his throat and turned away to put the books in a bag. “I don’t have a girlfriend. Or a guyfriend. Boyfriend, I mean. I’m bisexual.” He didn’t sound nearly as smooth as he’d been going for.

At this, Quirrell smiled and tried his best to suppress a chuckle. He failed. Voldemort felt the overpowering urge to kiss him again, get a taste of that laugh right off the tip of Quirrell’s tongue. “I know,” he said, indicating to Voldemort’s new seven bisexual pride wristbands.

Voldemort laughed again, nervous, and fiddled with the bracelets in question. “U-uh, yeah. Probably overkill, huh?”

“I’m wearing p-pride socks,” said Quirrell with a shrug, and Voldemort had to restrain himself to keep from looking over the side of the counter to stare at Quirrell’s feet.

He had pride socks. Quirrell. Pride socks. Gay pride. Gay pride socks. No matter which way Voldemort repeated the phrase to himself, every conclusion pointed to the same thing: there was a slim possibility that Quirrell was gay. Gay or an ally, and he hoped to Wizard God that it wasn’t the latter.

Quirrell handed Voldemort his card, a curious expression on his face, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite figure out how to voice it.. Voldemort could feel himself being watched and wondered what Quirrell was thinking about. He wanted to ask-- _ _man__ , he wanted to ask so badly--but he held himself back. Play it cool. Let Quirrell come to him. Plus, if he kept his mouth shut, he was less likely to humiliate himself any more.

“So you’re not dating B-Bellatrix?” Quirrell finally mumbled, his voice low and quiet as if he thought saying Bella’s name would summon her from the very depths of the bookstore or something. Which honestly wouldn’t have surprised Voldemort at all.

“Me and Bella? Nah, she’s my best friend. We tried that whole dating thing. Or, she tried to convince me to try that whole dating thing, but she’s not really my time.”

“That’s good.” Realizig what he’d said, Quirrell froze, his hand still poised to accept his card back. Voldemort tilted his head, an odd feeling quickening his blood.

“Good? Why’s that good?”

“U-uh.” Quirrell swallowed, his cheeks getting redder by the second. The weird feeling increased until Voldemort was pretty sure his heart shouldn’t be beating that fast. But here was Quirrell, flustered and trying to stutter his way through an excuse, and Voldemort just couldn’t keep the grin from his face.

“W-well, I j-just--what I-I’m trying t-to say is, uh-- _ _Ihavetogo__.” Quirrell quickly shoved away his debit card and reached for the bag, and Voldemort let him take it.

“Yeah, no, go ahead. I’ll see you in class. Enjoy your books!”

Quirrell nodded nervously, managed a shaky smile, and then bolted from the bookstore. The bell chimed, the door inviting in some of the Saturday chatter from outside before the exit slid shut again, leaving Voldemort peacefully to his thoughts. He leaned his elbow on the counter again and tried to quit smiling, but he couldn’t do it. Not with their last conversation playing on repeat in his head.

__Good__. Quirrell said it was __good__  that he and Bella weren’t dating. It was __good__  that Voldemort was single.

Whistling, Voldemort began to fiddle with the bisexual pride pins again, the same thought occurring to him again and again until he thought he might be sick from the excitement.

__He might actually have a chance__.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort and Quirrell? Flirting? It's more likely than you think!
> 
> Or, Voldemort tries to find the courage to ask Quirrell out, and Quirrell still searches for a book that Voldemort might enjoy reading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An “I could’ve died a few weeks ago and now feel the need to update” update. Nothing like a car crash to (kinda) get your priorities in order. I wanted to get this out for Quirrell’s birthday, so forgive me for being like… a week late. Shit’s been hectic.

Voldemort had a problem. A big problem, in his eyes. Huge. Catastrophic. And he couldn’t do any fucking thing to help it.

He’d started __looking forward to Saturdays__. Saturday, the dead day. The day where he spent the better part of eight hours in a constant rotation of cleaning the counter, fogging up the counter with his own breath, cleaning the counter, falling asleep on the counter, and cleaning the counter again. Possibly the most boring day in existence, and he was __looking forward to it__.

Saturdays were horrible, except for those sweet, beautiful moments where the door would open, the chime would ring, and Quirinus Quirrell would scurry in like a squirrel trying not to get caught. Lately, he’d been less talkative than usual, but he kept asking strange questions and then vanishing into the fiction section.

Today was no different. Voldemort was currently in his third cycle of “clean-dirty-clean” when the door swung open, bell chiming invitingly, and the boy he’d been pining over for weeks now ducked in. He wore a rainbow scarf around his neck, and the moment he saw Voldemort grinning at him stupidly, he ducked his nose into the colorful fabric to hide the blush rising up his cheeks.

__Man__ , Voldemort couldn’t get any more whipped, and he hardly spoke to the guy.

“Quirrell, man, I was beginning to think you weren’t going to visit me today.” He sounded lame. Why did he sound so lame? And why was his voice going up an octave? It wasn’t supposed to do that. Why was it doing that?

Oh, right. __Whipped__.

“Nice scarf,” he added as an afterthought, still praying to whatever deity might be listening that Quirrell was as gay as he hoped. God was probably a two-faced prick, so Voldemort had been going through the list of every other god and goddess he knew to try and appease __somebody__ into cutting him some slack. Bellatrix had been trying to help, but she kept giving him names of all these gods who wanted blood sacrifices and virgin deaths and all sorts of gruesome shit that Voldemort was sure would keep him up at night.

How Bellatrix even __knew__ that much about ancient deities was a mystery to him. She’d never picked up a book in her life, so he really hoped she hadn’t learned from experience or some shit.

“Th-th-thanks,” Quirrell murmured, his face so red that even the scarf couldn’t hide it. Voldemort took a deep breath as he though about all the things that scarf would be good for. Tugging Quirrell close, uncovering his mouth, kissing him senseless….

It wasn’t until he saw Quirrell blinking at him with an odd mixture of concerned expectancy that he realized he’d been asked a question. “Uh. What?”

Quirrell huffed, but Voldemort could see the telltale crinkle in the corner of his eyes to know that he was smiling. Since when did Voldemort notice shit like that? “I said, d-do you like murder?”

“That’s… probably the strangest thing you’ve asked me so far,” Voldemort admitted, confused, and Quirrell nodded. Voldemort could practically see him filing away information for later.

“What about kids? C-clowns? Demonic cars?”

“Demonic cars?” Voldemort repeated, unsure where this was even going. “Mind telling me what all these weird questions are about?”

Quirrell sighed, his shoulders slumping, and walked over to the counter. He rested an elbow on Voldemort’s recently cleaned counter, and Voldemort couldn’t bring himself to care at all. “I’m st-still trying to figure out a b-book you might l-like. I thought you m-might be into horror, with your r-reputation and a-all.”

“Reputation?” Oh, right. All those rumors Bellatrix kept starting about him. The latest one was about how he’d fought a two-year-old and left him with a nasty scar. Then something about crocodiles. Sometimes Bella could be hard to follow.

Voldemort took a chance and leaned on the counter as well. He and Quirrell were incredibly close, but this didn’t appear to have dawned on Quirrell yet. He still looked stumped by this endeavor of his to find a book that Voldemort would enjoy.

So, like any bisexual man pining over his adorable squirrel of a crush, Voldemort exploited this opportunity to its fullest. This close, he could feel Quirrell’s warm breath, which smelled faintly of cool mint, and could count the freckles along Quirrell’s cheeks. Voldemort suppressed a tremble; if he wanted, all he had to do was lean in closer, just a __little bit closer__ , and they would be nose-and-nose. Quirrell, still perplexed and oblivious, did that thing with his lip again. Voldemort wondered what Quirrell would do if Voldemort kissed him.

“What reputation?” he couldn’t resist asking.

Quirrell’s eyes flickered over to his, and his cheeks burned red again. Voldemort struggled not to reach out and feel if his face was hot. “Y-you know,” he murmured nervously, “how you t-talk to sn-snakes and sp-split your soul into p-pieces so you could be im-immortal. Also something a-about alligators?”

“Crocodiles,” Voldemort corrected, grinning. “You don’t really believe all that shit, right? That I can talk to snakes and convinced a crocodile to draw a lightning bolt on a kid’s head?”

“N-not really.” Quirrell laughed quietly, and Voldemort drank in the sound. __So whipped__. “Wh-why don’t you tell me wh-what’s true?”

“You want the truth? It’s kinda lame.”

“That’s okay.”

“And it’s gonna ruin your image of me for, like… ever.”

Quirrell smiled thoughtfully. “I c-can take it.”

“All right, you asked for it.” Voldemort sat up with a deep breath and braced himself on the counter, preparing for an ordeal for no other reason than to hear Quirrell snicker at his antics. “Bella makes all that stuff up for some reason. In reality, I’m just a guy who keeps to himself, gets good grades, and probably likes snakes just a little too much. I don’t go out of my way to harass anybody, except Bella and Malloy because they deserve it.”

“Malfoy,” Quirrell corrected, and Voldemort shrugged.

“Same difference. I have no two-year-old nemesis. There’s this one kid on tumblr I used to be friends with who vague-blogs some weirdly petty and aggressive shit about me, but that’s about it.”

“Y-you must have made an impact on them.”

“I guess I’m just that rotten. Whatever. If they want to waste their energy on negative bullshit like that, go for it.”

“S-sounds like you’re better off without them,” Quirrell concluded with a nod. He was getting more comfortable; his stutter had started to lessen. “And, I don’t think you’re r-rotten. Although, I __am__ a little d-disappointed you can’t talk to s-snakes.”

“See!? I __knew__ telling you all my secrets would ruin me for good!” Voldemort acted disheartened just to hear Quirrell laugh again, and that was when he realized what was happening.

They were __flirting__. Actual __flirting__. Voldemort was too bi for this shit. His heart couldn’t take it.

But Quirrell was smiling at him, and his brown eyes were soft and sweet, and __fuck it__ , he couldn’t take it any more.

“Hey… Quirrell, uh….”

But the door opened, and a group of giggling girls bounced through the door. Quirrell straightened immediately, blushing fiercely again, and cleared his throat. With an anxious smile, he hurriedly slipped away into the aisles of books. Voldemort sighed, disappointment making his whole body slacken, and he grumpily greeted the new customers. They barely gave him a glance before they vanished into the store.

Not even a minute later, the group left again, complaining loudly about full priced books. Voldemort wanted to strangle them. Didn’t they realize what they’d interrupted? Couldn’t they see that gay love was trying to bud, and they might have completely ruined Voldemort’s chances?

Voldemort sighed again. Who was he trying to kid? He never would’ve asked Quirrell out. He probably would’ve just made an idiot out of himself like he usually did. What made him even think that he might have a chance with the guy? Some socks and a scarf? Just because Quirrell might be gay didn’t mean that he was interested in Voldemort at all.

Hell, Voldemort might have even imagined the flirting. Voldemort liked to hope he wasn’t __that__ ridiculously pitiful, but stranger things had happened.

Especially to that reputation. Crocodiles? Really? How did Bella even come up with this shit?

Now was the about the time that Bellatrix would usually pop up and scare the hell out of him, but he hadn’t seen her at all yet. Maybe she was out getting coffee. Or worse--maybe she’d seen him chicken out and was so disappointed in him, she off making up more rumors about him. Now __that__ seemed likely.

Or she was just out getting coffee. Voldemort’s hand curled into a fist, and he cast a side-glance at the door. If she came back without coffee for him again, he--

Quirrell set a few books down on the counter, looking a little less nervous now that the gaggle of girls had left. “Wh-what was it you wanted to ask?”

“Uhhh….” He couldn’t do it. Voldemort just __couldn’t do it__. He could feel his heart racing, stinging deep in his chest with fear of rejection, and he quickly looked for a change of subject. He picked up one of the books Quirrell had placed in front of him and raised an eyebrow. “Stephen King? You don’t strike me as the type to like killer clowns. What made you go for __IT__?”

Quirrell blinked once, his lips pursed. He wasn’t buying it; Voldemort couldn’t tell. He could __see__  the argument on the tip of his tongue, the curiosity dancing in his eyes. He swallowed and looked at the book in Voldemort’s hand, shrugging a little stiffly.

“I th-thought it might be a book y-you would like. I wanted to r-read it first, th-though.”

“You’re… gonna read a clown book… for me?” Surely he’d heard him wrong. Or he was jumping to conclusions. He was good at that. He was a __master__  at jumping to conclusions. Yeah. That had to be it.

But then Quirrell’s cheeks flushed again, and he stuttered through an excuse. “N-no, I’m-I’m trying to exp-pand my h-horizons, t-too!”

Voldemort couldn’t believe it. Could he fall for Quirrell __any more__? Surely he couldn’t. He definitely couldn’t. There had to be a limit to how much one person could be liked, but there was Quirrell, proving him wrong for what felt like the thousandth time.

And there was Voldemort, smiling like an idiot. “Well, I really enjoyed the old __IT__ miniseries, so I’ll be excited to hear what you think of the book. It looks kinda long, but if __you__ recommend it… I’d definitely read it.”

Quirrell stared at him speechlessly. There was a sort of awe in his eyes that stole Voldemort’s breath, and he cleared his throat once before he began to ring out Quirrell’s books. Halfway through, he stopped and fixed Quirrell with a curious look.

“Why do you always come to this bookstore on the weekends? You can probably find most of these books cheaper somewhere else.”

Quirrell opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Voldemort waited with baited breath, as if his very fate hinged on what Quirrell planned to say next. With a small, nervous laugh, Quirrell looked away and shook his head. When he looked up at Voldemort, he wore an almost blinding smile.

“You’re __really__ dense, you know that?”

Whatever Voldemort had been expecting, it certainly wasn’t that. He continued the transaction blindly, mesmerized with the glow on Quirrell’s face. “Wh-what?”

“Y-you heard me. You’re dense.” He handed Voldemort his card and waited until Voldemort finished before he asked, “Do you wanna coffee sometime?”

“ _ _What__?” Voldemort didn’t hear that. He __definitely__ didn’t hear that. He must’ve been going crazy. Too much Divination Theory, not enough sleep. That had to be it because he was __pretty__ sure he just heard Quirrell ask him--

“You. Me. Coffee. Together.” Quirrell’s smile hadn’t faltered, but now Voldemort could detect a hint of fear in his tone. What was he afraid of?

That Voldemort was going to say __no__? __As if__.

“Yeah. Yeah! That sounds--I’d--sure! Sounds great! I’d love you with coffee. Shit. I mean, I’d--” Good job, Voldemort. Way to sound like an idiot.

“Good. I’m glad!” Relief bubbled from Quirrell’s mouth in the form of a laugh. Before he could change his mind, Voldemort hastily scribbled his number on the back of the receipt and handed it to him.

“Y-yeah, just, uh… text me whenever, and we’ll work something out.”

“I’ll d-do that.” Quirrell took the bag with the books and tucked away the card and receipt safely into his pocket. “Then I’ll talk to you later?”

“Later. Yeah. Definitely.” Voldemort nodded dumbly, still trying to figure out if this was actually happening or not. Quirrell chuckled, blushing, and turned away toward the door. Voldemort watched him; a giddy smile had started to work its way across his face, and he struggled to hold in his excitement.

Quirrell had asked him out. He actually __asked him out__. Quirrell liked guys and Voldemort __at the same time__. He hadn’t really been expecting this development. In every mental scenario he’d rehearsed, __none__ of them ended with __Quirrell__  being the one to __ask him out first__.

He was still grinning like an idiot when Quirrell looked back and waved before the door closed behind him. Voldemort waved in return and kept waving even when Quirrell was out of sight. This had to be a dream. __Definitely__ a dream.

“Yes!” Bellatrix suddenly exclaimed from beside him. He jumped, a hand over his heart, and gave her a dirty glare when she pumped a fist into the air.

“Where did you even __come__ from? How long have you been there?”

“Details, my lord.” She waved her hand dismissively. “What matters is that Malfoy owes me twenty bucks!”

“What? Why does he--have you been __betting__ on my love life?!”

She snickered evilly. “We sure have! I knew you would never suck it up and ask Quirrell out yourself, but Malfoy still had so much faith in you. How could you let him down like this?” She tutted at him mockingly, and he could feel the blood rising to his cheeks.

“God _ _dammit__ , Bella!”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Voldemort does something incredibly stupid and learns some valuable information about windows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes! I haven’t updated this in so long. Terribly sorry about that. There was that IT phase I went through, and then I started working on original material so yeah. Bad excuses. Hope this was worth the wait?

            Voldemort was an idiot. A huge, fucking idiot. The biggest idiot to ever idiot, in fact, and even he hadn’t known that he could reach such a new low.

            Quirrell had asked him out. Gay Quirrell did a gay thing and gayly asked him out. For coffee. And Voldemort had agreed. Of course he had agreed! He’d only been pining after this guy for weeks!

            And then he’d done the stupid thing.

            Voldemort banged his forehead on the counter. It had been over a month since he gave Quirrell his number, a month since he’d done the stupid thing, and he was back to hating his weekends.

            Mostly Saturdays. Especially Saturdays. Because Voldemort was a big, _fucking_ idiot.

            “Cheer up, my lord! Look! A book on horcruxes!” Bellatrix held up said book, beaming grandly, as if that was supposed to make him feel better. In reality, it just made him sick. Everything made him sick anymore.

            “Thanks, Bella, but I don’t even know what a _horcrux_ is.” He placed his hand on the top of the book to lower it again, deadpan in spite of Bella’s disappointment.

            “Okay. Fine. I’ll play your game.” Bella haughtily turned around, waltzed over to the magazine rack, and returned with the latest issue of _Time_. “Here! Zac Efron! Those abs _always_ cheer you up.”

            Voldemort gazed down at the cover, almost feeling a spark of interest. Zefron had such a nice smile and pretty eyes and perfectly kissable lips—but you know who else had all of that? Quirrell. Just the thought of Quirrell with his brown eyes and his mousy hair and that delectable mouth of his had Voldemort shoving away the magazine.

            “Bella, I’m just not in the mood, okay? Not for Zefron or horpluxes—”

            “ _Horcruxes_.”

            “Whatever the hell they are! I don’t care, all right?” With a sigh, Voldemort rested his elbow on the counter and stared at the clock. Six hours. Bella would be with him for four hours, and then he could spend the rest of his Saturday afternoon reflecting about what a moron he was and maybe get around to digging that hole he was always talking about.

            He wondered if holes had good wi-fi signal.

            “My lord, I’m concerned about you.”

            It probably depended on the size of the hole.

            “Lately, you’ve been listless, disinterested, and, quite frankly, _boring_.”

            How deep he made the hole, definitely. Too far down, and his signal would be shit. How was he supposed to get caught up on _Queer Eye_ if he had bad service? That also raised the question about how he would charge his phone in this hole….

            Bellatrix slapped her hand down on the counter, and Voldemort nearly toppled over. “There are pieces of you missing!”

            “Pieces of me missing?” Voldemort repeated, his voice high and raspy. “What does that even mean? I’m all right here!”

            “No. No, you’ve been acting fishy. What happened with the peasant to cause this? What did he do to you?” Bellatrix demanded, looking like she was about to go on the warpath. Voldemort had to be careful, otherwise he might put Quirrell in serious danger. Voldemort himself wasn’t entirely sure what Bellatrix could be capable of.

            “He didn’t do anything! It was me, okay?” Voldemort deflated, leaning on the counter again. He glared down at his smudgy reflection and sighed. “It was all me.”

            Bella looked like she wanted to say something, but the door opened then. Finally. A distraction to get away from Bella’s incessant nagging. Both of them turned to greet the customer, but the words died in Voldemort’s throat.

            Quirrell stood a few feet away from the doorway, already looking like he regretted his decision to come inside. Voldemort scrambled to straighten up, slipped on the counter, and just managed to catch himself before his chin hit the surface. Smooth.

            He still looked wonderful, Voldemort decided. Still unfairly adorable, despite the mild animosity he wore on his face. Voldemort deserved that.

            Voldemort deserved that and _more_.

            Quirrell opened his mouth, but then his eyes flickered to Bellatrix. Of course he would want privacy during this… whatever this way. Voldemort looked at Bella and put on his best pleading expression. Sighing, Bellatrix took her book on horcruxes and vanished into the children’s section. Voldemort still wasn’t sure what horcruxes _were_ , but he didn’t think they belonged with the kid’s books.

            But now he was alone with Quirrell—which was the opposite of what he wanted, now that he was thinking about it. What was he supposed to say? How was he supposed to say it? _Hey, Quirrell, sorry I’m such a fucking moron! Here for more Jane Austin?_

            That was probably it. Quirrell came back for _her_. Jane fucking Austin. How was Voldemort supposed to measure up to her?

            But Quirrell didn’t ask about Jane Austin. He just approached the counter and stared at Voldemort like he couldn’t figure him out. Voldemort got that often. Usually followed with the question, _What happened to your nose?_

            That wasn’t Quirrell’s question, though.

            “Wh-why did you st-stand me up?”

            Voldemort swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. He couldn’t remember words.

            What he _could_ remember was that evening a little over a month ago. Standing outside the Starbucks, watching Quirrell from afar as he sipped at some kind of iced tea. Quirrell had definitely made an effort to look nice; he was wearing a crisp, white-button up instead of a sweater or jacket like Voldemort was used to seeing. He looked _so amazing_ , Voldemort was pretty sure he was having another gay awakening.

            He had a book with him, too. The Stephen King one that he’d bought to read. For Voldemort. To determine if Voldemort would like it or not.

            All at once, Voldemort had felt a debilitating fear sour his stomach. What was he doing? This was _Quirinus Quirrell_ , the guy Voldemort had been pining over for the better part of the year. The reason why Voldemort flaunted his bisexuality so loudly just to make sure that Quirrell understood that he was into guys. His first thought in the morning and his last thought at night.

            What was he _doing_? Voldemort could never be good enough for this guy! Not Quirrell, who liked books and flowers and had the sweetest smile and the brightest eyes and made Voldemort’s heart beat until he was breathless. Quirrell probably had some. Some big _life plan_ or some shit, and Voldemort? Voldemort’s main aspiration in life was to work at this bookstore until he died. He didn’t even _like_ books, and that just made it worse.

            He was moody. And had a temper. And a strangely intimidating reputation. He and Quirrell were just too… just too _different_.

            Now Voldemort realized he’d been the biggest fucking _idiot_ for having a panic attack over getting coffee with his crush, but all of that had made enough sense to make him turn around and run the other way.

            He hadn’t even _texted_ Quirrell. Just left him sitting there. Man, Voldemort was a piece of work.

            Voldemort sighed and gripped the edge of the countertop, his sweaty palms leaving even more smudges for him to clean. He opened his mouth twice to speak, but he couldn’t seem to get words to come out. What good were words, anyway? Words weren’t going to get him out of this. Oh, no. Voldemort knew his mouth. Words were just going to make this situation _worse_.

            Quirrell huffed, realizing that Voldemort wasn’t going to answer him. “You kn-know, I ah-ah- _agonized_ about whether I sh-should even ask you out. I th-thought you were going to be suh-such an asshole with all the things people s-say about you. Buh-but you were always so-so-so _nice_ when I came in, so I tuh-took a chance. Thanks for proving me right.”

            Voldemort cringed at every word, feeling worse and worse with each passing syllable. “Yeah,” he replied quietly. Shit. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Yeah, I’m a real asshole. You caught me.”

            Quirrell sighed again. Voldemort risked a glance up and saw Quirrell wearing a melancholy frown. His brow was furrowed too, as if he wasn’t getting the reaction he anticipated. Shyly, he stepped closer until he could grab the countertop opposite of Voldemort. He hands were _so close_ , Voldemort wanted to just reach out and slide his fingers through Quirrell’s, pull him closer, lean across the counter and—

            Bad idea. For one, Quirrell was royally pissed at him. For two, Voldemort’s hands were _really sweaty_.

            “I didn’t come here to yell at you,” Quirrell said quietly, his forefinger rubbing at a scratch on the countertop. He deflated a little, his eyes downcast and his shoulders slumped. “I ju-just wanted to know _why_. Wh-where you just playing around wi-with me from the start?”

            Voldemort gaped at him, astonished and this horrified at himself for doing this to Quirrell. He hadn’t just done something stupid—he’d _hurt_ Quirrell. Hurt him more than he’d ever thought he could. All because Voldemort was an insecure little shit.

             “Quirrell, man, _listen_ , I—” Voldemort swallowed. This wasn’t going how he’d hoped. Best to just be straightforward. The only kind of straight he knew how to be. Yeah. He opened his mouth again, looked up at Quirrell’s disheartened expression, and everything he wanted to say evaporated from his mind.

            Instead, he started babbling. “Okay, I screwed up, I get that. I don’t even know why you’re giving me a chance to explain myself because I’m a piece of shit and don’t deserve it. I just—I got _scared_ , okay? I saw you sitting in there drinking your tea and—and you looked _so great_ —and you were reading that book just because you wanted to see if I’d like it—and I fucking _panicked_ because everything I wanted was right there. Man, I’ve liked you for _months_. It’s actually really pathetic; my friends were even betting about whether I had the balls to ask you out. They probably should’ve been betting about whether I had the balls to go to the date in the first place, and now I’ve fucked up my chances with you because I was so _dumb_ , and—”

            A hand wrapped around his, effectively cutting off his rambling. Voldemort gasped for air, his heart hammering wildly, and the realization that Quirrell was _holding his hand_ only made it race faster. He looked down at Quirrell’s fingers curled around his wrist and then back up at the man himself, whose expression had softened into something unreadable.

            “I looked _okay_ ,” said Quirrell with a shake of his head.

            Voldemort shook his head right back. “You looked _wonderful_.”

            Quirrell gave a small nod. “So did you. I wuh-was upset I didn’t get to have a closer look.”

            “What?” Voldemort tilted his head to the side. That couldn’t be right. He’d been outside. No way Quirrell saw him!

            Quirrell smiled fondly. No, that couldn’t be right. Yeah, that was definitely _fond_. Voldemort didn’t know what was happening. “Windows work buh-buh- _both_ ways, Voldemort.”

            Voldemort swallowed. “Oh.”

            “Oh?”

            “Right. Windows. Right. So, uh… so you saw me.” Voldemort tried to pull his hand back, but Quirrell wasn’t letting go just yet. Which was fine! Fine. Totally fine. Voldemort’s heart would definitely still work after this.

            “I did. You looked ­te-te-terrified, and then you r-ran. I didn’t want to th-think the worst of you, but….”

            “Yeah. My reputation.” Voldemort was going to _kill_ Bellatrix.

            Quirrell shook his head patiently. “Not that. You’re so… you’re so _cool_ , Voldemort. You h-have all these friends, and you’re really—uh….” Blushing, he trailed off, his hand trembling. “You’re _really_ uh-uh-attractive.”

            Now was Voldemort’s turn to blush. His whole _face_ felt red. Compared to the sickly pale color of his skin, he doubted he looked very attractive _now_.

            Quirrell looked down sullenly, his voice quiet as he said, “How could you ever be interested in _me_? I’m nuh-nuh- _nothing_.”

            No. No, no, _no_. Quirrell couldn’t possibly think that about himself. Voldemort couldn’t let that happen.

            He turned his hand over to grip Quirrell’s in return. “Quirrell. You’re _everything_.”

            Quirrell’s head snapped up in shock. His eyes frantically scanned Voldemort’s face, searching for a lie that he’d never find. Voldemort was head over heels, more than whipped, and it was about time Quirrell realized that.

            Then Quirrell leaned over the counter, grabbed Voldemort by the shoulder, and kissed him.

            And _that_ was the moment where Voldemort realized he would _never_ recover.

            Kissing Quirrell was everything that Voldemort had hoped it would be—soft, incredibly soft, and saccharine. Quirrell tasted like tea and honey, and Voldemort pressed closer to chase that flavor. He didn’t even _like_ tea, but he liked it on Quirrell. And so what if the counter was crushing his abdomen? Quirrell was smiling against his lips. Internal bleeding was _worth it_.

            Quirrell leaned back, creating a small space between them where their breaths mingled in warm puffs that caressed Voldemort’s cheeks. He was laughing, giddily, and so was Quirrell. This close, he could see the shades of brown that made up Quirrell’s eyes, see them alight with excitement, _happiness_ , and Voldemort was the reason why.

            “I’m an idiot,” he murmured, trying very hard not to kiss Quirrell again. He failed, leaning back in for another chaste press that Quirrell hummed into.

            “Yes,” Quirrell replied against his mouth, the word rolling sweetly from his tongue and onto Voldemort’s. He stretched a bit, kissing Voldemort again, and _man_ , if that wasn’t addicting, Voldemort didn’t know what was.

            “Can you forgive me?” Voldemort bumped his nose against Quirrell’s, delighting in the way Quirrell smiled at the gesture. “Will you give me another chance?”

            Quirrell hummed again, considering, and leaned in for one more kiss that broke with his huge smile. “Yes.”

            “Yes?” Voldemort repeated in disbelief.

            Quirrell laughed and leaned back, reaching up once to poke Voldemort’s nose. They were still holding hands, and Voldemort was sure he never wanted to let go. “Yes! You owe muh-me a coffee.”

            “I owe you more than a _coffee_ ,” Voldemort debated with a slight frown. “More like dinner and a movie of your choice.”

            Quirrell hummed, his expression suggesting he was unsatisfied with such an arrangement. “Sounds sh-short. Coffee after the movie?”

            “Just name the day and time, and I’m yours,” Voldemort decided, wondering if this was all a dream. Just earlier, he hadn’t thought that Quirrell would ever speak to him again, and now they were discussing date plans and kissing and—

            No. None of Voldemort’s dreams would’ve ever measured up to _this_.

            “What time do you get off today?” Quirrell asked, hope flickering in his eyes.

            Voldemort frowned, his thumb rubbing against Quirrell’s skin. He had nice skin. “I have to close the store tonight.”

            “No, you don’t!” said Bellatrix from beside him. He jumped, dropping Quirrell’s hand in the process. It was a good thing he did, too, because Bellatrix was shoving him around the counter then.

            “I don’t?” he repeated dumbly, his heart acting nuts again. One of these two was going to kill him. Voldemort would put his money on Bellatrix.

            “Nope!” Bella answered, popping her _p_. She gave Voldemort a good shove in Quirrell’s direction, and he only just managed to keep from falling right into the guy. “ _You_ , my lord, have plans. I can watch the shop until closing.”

            Voldemort frowned. This sounded incredibly irresponsible. “You won’t light the place on fire, right?”

            “Nonsense! You handled the traumatic event all on your own! I’m so proud of you,” she cooed and clapped her hands delightedly.

            “Now wait a damn—”

            “I’ll clock you out at close. Go have fun, boys!” Bellatrix waved to them dismissively, still grinning like a maniac. So like normal.

            Swallowing, Voldemort turned around to face a rather bewildered Quirrell. “Uh… so about tonight. Looks like my schedule’s free? So. Uh. Dinner, a movie, and then coffee?”

            Quirrell blinked once. Then again. He looked over at Bellatrix then back at Voldemort. And he smiled.

            Man, Voldemort didn’t think anything could compare to that smile. He looked forward to kissing it off him once they had some privacy.

            “Okay,” said Quirrell and took Voldemort’s hand. His eyes were warm and excited in anticipation.

            And Voldemort grinned right back, squeezing Quirrell’s hand. “ _Wonderful_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Voldemort is just like riding a bike. Happy Pride!

**Author's Note:**

> Questions? Comments? Concerns? Emotional outbursts? Let me know!


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